I think with my hands. I don’t tell them what to do and they don’t tell me why they did it. That’s the only way we get along.
I work by mistakes. All are little windows into rented rooms where a reunion of shapes, lines, and colors jostle for position. Some stay, most get up and leave. Wrong party. Mark, scrape, mark, start over. Over days and weeks, a human figure of tethered abstraction takes shape: confident, moving, laughing, thinking. Always purely expressive and anchored to neither concept nor message.
I work on a painting until it turns to me and says, “Hey, you there, the guy in the filthy apron, pour me a Scotch.” It is not polite to let a painting drink alone, so I pour two. Then I scratch my name in the wet paint and take a walk by the river. A painting is never finished anymore than I am.